


A moral compass for a vampire

by lady_in_aquamarine



Category: Fright Night (2011), Twilight (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Enemies to Lovers, Multi, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21849145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_in_aquamarine/pseuds/lady_in_aquamarine
Summary: The legend said that if you kill a vampire with a stake blessed by Saint Michael, vampire's victims turn back into humans. It was a lie. Not a complete one, but that made the reality even worse. And eight years after that awful night another vampire came to town bringing his stupid laws with him and willing to teach newborns how eternal life should be lived.
Relationships: Aro (Twilight)/Peter Vincent
Comments: 20
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a joke after facing some real-life headcanon in a drugstore about hematogen, but as I'm a slut for angstish stories with bad endings I decided to bring one to the party. Hope, that you'll enjoy it.

Some legends are just stories to frighten children with. Some are true to the very end. But most of them are a good mixture of both possibilities. It's always the hard way to find out which part is which. The legend said that if you kill a vampire with a stake blessed by Saint Michael, vampire's victims turn back into humans. It was a lie. Not a complete one, but that made the reality even worse. He and Amy (and most certainly a dozen of others, but they were out of contact to be checked) got stuck in some Limbo. The more time was passing since that awful night, the more obvious this was becoming.

The aftereffects started in a couple of weeks as a sore throat and nausea. Neither lemon mixed with honey nor spray did help. Looking for something that will ease symptoms, even unorthodox, Peter wandered into the Russian quarter. It turned out that they had the medicine. The fact he didn't want to know was that those nutrition bars looking like a lovechild of a bar of cheap chocolate and soya sweets were made of actual blood. On the other hand, Miss Peterson found them helpful too. Thus he returned the next day and bought everything they had in that small shop.

Some months after, silver glitter hadn't washed off Amy's skin after the prom. She was doing her best, but all she got were bloody scratchings on her cheeks and forehead. In three or four days, without any logical reason, Peter himself started to sparkle like a drag queen too. About that time, Charlie became suspicious of them, but they were lucky enough that he jumped into the wrong conclusions.

"Screw him, Bamby..." Peter passed Amy a glass with the same amount of whiskey as he poured to himself. The girl was crying her eyes out after her now ex-boyfriend accused her of cheating with a not-so-fake vampire hunter. Therefore, Midori was not hard enough alcohol for this situation. And yes, probably he was making things worse by letting Amy spend the night on the couch. But what kind of man he would be if he let her drive in such condition?

A year and a half had passed since Jerry's death before Peter noticed that his brown eyes became color of amber. All blue also did vanish away from Amy's irises by that time. Even after a brainstorm, none of them was sure whether there are other hunters in Vegas or not. The next day, with a heavy heart, he asked her to move in just in case. Telling the truth, it was strange that her parents didn't even say a word against this invitation. But like Scarlett O'Hara, Peter told himself to think of it all tomorrow and then again and again.

Two years later, he almost fell off his chair and got choke on his drink when Amy called him daddy. She said that she was trying the word out, in a non-sexual way, thank God. It fitted in after some time. By that time, she wrote the whole script for a new illusion show when the "Fright night" he was performing with for ages became not so popular as it was. "Bloody sunrise" consisted of every fucking cliche about vampires, but it was ending with an unexpected plot twist. This mixture was enough for bringing great success in Vegas. And as a result, they were giving ten shows every week, but still, all the tickets were sold out for half of the year in advance.

He and Amy (she was playing a thousand-year-old vegetarian vampire) were sitting on the very edge of the stage representing the roof of some block building. There was just a double vanishing trick to perform, and then they were going to be done for today. The fake sun was rising to flood the stage and the auditorium with a reddish light.

"You need both an impenitent and sensitive heart to be one of us. Otherwise, immortality sucks..." - Amy, well, Mary-the-vampire as she was in the role, took a draw at the cigarette that was still between his shaking fingers.

"I quite remember the village I was born in as well as thousands of hundreds of faces I've met thought the millennia. They're all dead now, not a single grave left, and here I am. I can speak every language. I've met Shakespeare and danced with Casanova in Paris. And so what? The older I get, the more it feels like I'm trapped in a phenakistiscope. Everything changes, but stays the same. Sometimes I think that I don't have enough stamina to live anymore."

"Phenakistiscope? Is that thingamajig that was before the cinema?" Peter waved his hand standing up."

"Yes," she laughed in an awfully unnatural way, "Oh God, yes."

"We should go now... You know... The sun," the ray of light was coming closer and closer, but it was still not blocking the way to the door.

"You're right... we should," Mary stood up too. She turned around, peering into the void to the place where the sun would be in reality. Then she breathed out and pushed the man she was seriously considering to spend the rest of eternity with, out of the shadow. There was a loud scream. He was burning, it took less than a minute for nothing but clothes and half-burned bones to be left on the stage. A couple of moments later, the sun was up, and Mary had burned in the same way with a relieved smile on her face.

"Have you seen that freak in the first row?" asked Peter during the fifteen-second break between the end of the play and the curtain call. He already got dressed and was helping Amy with magnets on her clothes. No one should have found out that some of the feats we based on vampiric (they were quite honest to themselves) abilities.

\- Snow White with albino eyes? Yes.

\- I couldn't focus on his heartbeat.

\- There wasn't one.

When the curtain was raised, they were greeted by an applause squall. Usually, it was the most pleasing part of the show, but now Peter was feeling nothing except shiver going down his sweaty spine. That man he noticed before, wasn't only clapping, but he was standing on his feet with a broad grin sharp enough to get someone killed. Running across him in the hotel's bar full of people wasn't even surprising but not welcomed.

Madlen, the manager, said that there was a European asking for an appointment. He wanted to discuss the possibilities of a tour of Bloody Surprise. So, after putting the grease-paint off and putting another on, they had to look for a random man. The main problem with the task was that people in the bar were always packed like sardines. And if eight years ago crowded places were adored by Peter and most likely by Amy too, as she was a teenager, nowadays they weren't.

First of all, the crowd stunk. Secondly, when you are an observer of a neverending weekend, once it starts to look like a madhouse of figures and faces that are hopelessly unintelligible. But those ghosts were laughing and boozing all night through, not quite aware of all the dangers around them. Vegas's spirit stayed the same. Nobody will even notice if someone mysteriously disappears. Knowing that firsthand was awful. And the last, but not least, they were tired as hell. Weariness was a constant companion, as well as vomming. Changed stomachs rejected everything, that wasn't Hematogen or alcohol.

"Mister Vincent, and, as far as I could get from this," man showed a neatly folded playbill. "Miss Peterson, I appreciate your taking the time today."

The stranger in a fine-tailored suit had some sort of accent, not a thick one, just some sharpness to the consonants. As Madlen told - a European, but why it had to be him? Why out of all people in the bar, it had to be some pervert? Amy's grip on his palm became quite painful, but yet Peter returned his best fake smile. He wished she could read his thoughts and find out that he also had found their's company frightening.

"My pleasure, mister..." he put the stress on the last word waiting for a meaningful response.

\- I'm terribly sorry, I've got a little bit distracted. Those who are in the theme do usually know my name, as well as some others. I'm Aro Volturi.

"No fucking way!" exclaimed Peter in sync with Amy's "You've got to be kidding!"

The ancient vampire gave them a look that was simultaneously amused and offended, but before Aro was able to say anything in his defense, former vampire hunter kept going.

\- Listen, buddy. I'm ok with fake names, but don't bring that adolescent bullshit up.

\- To my great regret, I have to admit that those books are sufficiently accurate, the first one, especially. Missis Meyer has a great gift of clairvoyance. Unfortunately, when our community found that out, the leak had already been publicized. On the other hand, her work helped us to hide in plain sight.

Amy rolled her eyes in a way she had taken after her mentor and sighed.

\- It still doesn't answer why you are here. The show is just an excuse.

Aro nodded more to his own thoughts then to her words.

\- It's somewhat avant-garde. Vampires who pretend to be humans, pretending to be vampires. But you are right, it's just an excuse. As you both are law-abiding, most of us voted for leaving you alone till you would be morally ready. But after some time, I heard rumors that you have problems with hunting. You know, eating instant noodles instead of blood is rather unhealthy. So, since you are turncoats, not catechumens, I'm here to provide some help and teach you ...

Peter couldn't help himself and busted in nervous laughter.

"Teach what?" he asked, "How to kill people?".

Suddenly, the other man's face cracked, broadened, and spread to a somehow both cold and paternal smile.

\- If you say so.

"Bamby, we're leaving! And you," In anger, Peer pointed his finger at the vampire. The lower eyelid of his left eye started to twitch, but he tried to play it cool, even though Amy almost broke some of his metacarpal bones by holding on his hand too tight. "And your broken moral compass can go and fuck yourself with the biggest dildo you would be able to find!"

Corners of Aro's mouth immediately turned down, and his face started to look waxy.

\- Oh, smile bastard, you're lucky with not getting a stake in your heart today.

Peter grabbed still aghast co-something by her wrist and led her to the exit. They both didn't feel safe enough, till the door of the penthouse closed behind their backs, and all seven locks were activated.

"You did it again... His eyes went glassy," laughed Amy, slipping to the floor. "I saw it!"

\- So what? I didn't tell him to jump off the roof after all.

\- I wish I would be able to see his face when he'll realize that he can't disobey you.

\- and all that will happen next.

\- It's gross!

\- It's like porn... I've met dozen of porn actors in Vegas. Speaking about watching, I'm pretty sure we haven't finished Good Omens yet.

Peter offered Amy his hand.

\- Yep... You bring Margarita... I'll turn it on.

Both of them were not aware that after an unmercifully forced orgasm, Aro Volturi started to frame another plan. Once he came to Vegas, he expected to see desperate and apprehensive young vampires, but they weren't. It turned out that Vincents (as he called them to himself) were even more moral-driven then Callens, and it was all. He could just return to Volterra, considering his mission as accomplished, but it would be such a shame if he lets a vampire with such a gift simply slip away from his fingers. He needed a full backstory of their turning at first, then he would decide how to win them over.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

\- Daddy, we have a problem!

Amy rushed through the door and swung it shut, trying to even her breath. She was still pretending that jogging for two hours every day was the thing that helped her to stay in the shape of sixteen-year-old. So, it was part of their everyday routine. Every morning at 5 am, Amy was putting on a sports bra and leggings and running around the nearest quarters, while Peter was sipping another drink and looking through local news. The articles he was especially interested in were criminal ones. Anything mysterious and gory was printed out for further investigation and added to folders. Thank fuck, none of the news stayed there for long. Jealous spouses, avengers, suicides of gamblers that lost everything were the answers for a question of what had happened. But today, the girl returned even before the laptop was able to turn on.

\- We already have a dozen of them: alcohol, cigarettes, insomnia, a manager that is a total control freak, global warming. Which one has been keeping you up at such an hour?

\- Sarcasm makes you look like a grumpy grandfather with a gout attack.

\- Fuck off.

This arguing somehow made her feel a little less worried. If the mentor was swearing, there still was a chance for things to get better. Amy shook her head and landed with a thud in her armchair - the one that appeared in the penthouse not long after she moved in.

\- There is Volturi in the lobby. Don't think he saw me, but he was asking George questions about you and me. I overheard it. 

All the careless listlessness disappeared from Peter's limbs in a second. He even took off his feet from the armrest and sat straight.

\- George... Is he that one front desk manager with silly pencil mustaches?

Amy nodded, not feeling quite verbal in this sticky atmosphere.

"Well, he knows nothing," reassured her the man, but his tone wasn't convincing enough.

-But others do! 

"No one does really know what had happened that night," Peter slid off his seat, kneeling before Amy and taking her hand. "Except us three, and Charlie is somewhere in the other city. "

But the moment when all the masks had slipped lasted less than the other soap bubble. Peter closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and asked another question, therefore, ruining the impression of a caring man.

\- What would you prefer - an e-book or a paper one? 

Amy blinked in confusion as he started running about the room. First, the blinds got open for the first time in a couple of months. Warm sunlight streamed into the room, bright and inviting. It was deadly for those vampires who were not belonging to a specific kind, but they did belong. Then he fished out some books out of boxes, that were standing on the floor for quite a millennia.

-Sorry? I can't get the link. 

"Aro made a fatal mistake by revealing the fact that the Twilight saga has some sense in it," he explained.

"You are not planning to read those books, aren't you?" Amy fidgeted in her seat. Peter stopped his preparations for a second and looked over his shoulder with a psychic smile.

\- No, we are. 

"I need a drink if we're about to get through them all," she leaned back and looked at the walls.

"You know where the bar is, Bamby," he sat back, a slight frown on his face. "So which one?"

"Millennials do prefer gadgets," Amy sighed.

* * *

It was very bold of the young lady to assume that one of the oldest vampires alive (there were others, older, but not wiser, as they lost the power they once had) didn't notice her. A little squeak of surprise and horror Amy made before she hid behind the corner, sounded like music to his ears. Unfortunately, it was the only good thing that happened during the morning and afternoon too. Aro spent hours searching for any snippets of information. Nothing, he got nothing but some gossips and chitchats. Though Peter Vincent and his permanent for more than seven years assistant were local celebrities, not so local, as Volturi first thought, as they refused to sell their show for Broadway, not a single soul knew anything about them for sure.

The situation was that bad that he didn't figure out whether Amy and Peter were lovers or they were indeed father and a bastard daughter. Mouth-to-mouth kiss during the show could easily be an indicator of high professionalism.

The majority of those who stuck to the father-and-daughter hypothesis was appealing to unusual eye color. Amber - the color of Peter's and Amy's eyes - was way more human-like than golden of all other vegetarian vampires Aro has met during his life but still untypical. In the lack of knowledge, people went with Occam's razor, but the obvious answer in this instance wasn't the right one. Much to Aro's astonishment, the wisest guess was outspoken by a chambermaid, who brought him fresh towels. A rather old Mexican woman with a thick Spanish accent - vampire indulged himself, and refreshed his knowledge of this language earning great respect as a bonus- called those eyes diabólicos. Aro himself thought of it as a color of fools, surviving on powdered blood, but he, of course, didn't say it aloud to definitely a faithful catholic that was grateful to him for being dressed when she was allowed into the room.

But most of the youths working in Hard Rock were saying that those two are a match made in heaven. Everyone who had an experience of working with Peter Vincent mentioned nasty temper, his vampire fixation, and alcoholism. In the past twelve years, nobody has ever seen him being sober. Sometimes he was tipsy, sometimes he couldn't even find the door, but Amy influenced him really well, and now his daily dose was about two or three glasses. Also, miss Peterson was using only one specific word, referring to the illusionist - daddy. In modern English, this word was oversexualized.

No matter how hard the co-leader of Volturi was trying to solve the puzzle, he failed. So he called his daughter longing for advice and even though it was really late in Italy Jane answered her phone after the firth tone.

"Hello?" high pitched voice of the not-aging child reminded Aro of silver bells.

"How you're doing, my dear?"

"Not as shitty as you," she smiled. "You sound exhausted."

Usually, Aro would complain and ask Jane to watch her language, but she got the mood right.

"My head is a mess," Aro said. He was lying on top of his undisturbed bed, still fully dressed and staring at the white ceiling, wishing to understand what century's style the molding was copying. It seemed that the author of it had a habit of hanging out in the bathroom during history class. "I've looked through at least half of hundred lives today. They're boring."

"People are always boring, especially for such long-livers like us. How was your meeting with Vincents?"

Aro allowed himself to groan.

"Imagine Callens," he said. "Then triple their moral code and add vulgar behavior as well as style of speaking with every second word being profanity."

"So..." sustained the girl thoughtfully. "They had offered you to go and have a romantic intercourse with your own being. Am I right?"

At first, Aro nodded, forgetting that Jane couldn't see him. He stood up and slowly walked across the luxurious suite towards the window.

"Sometimes, even I forget that you're an adult trapped in a fourteen-year-old body."

"It's one of many reasons why I'm your favorite, you can speak to me in both ways. When you're returning?"

"Don't know."

"Something caught your eye?"

With an absent-minded smile, Aro was watching the city at his feet. It was shining with all-rainbow neon lights, people down there looking like ants. And then after a long second, a phrase from yesterday's show popped into the vampire's head. Indeed the older he's been getting, the more world was becoming a tedious place, as due to tremendous life experience, everything started to be predictable, more or less.

"Yes," he answered after a long and pregnant pause.

"Is it why you called at 3 am? "

"Yes," Aro shook his head, "I know what trick you're playing."

"Then unburden thou heart."

"I don't have the right words."

"Speechless?" Jane made a soft sound, suppressing laughter. "It's not very of you."

Aro's eyes moved over the landscape and fixed on his own reflection in the panes of the window.

"For sure," - he said. "Those Vincents are better to be had as allies, then enemies, but they are self-reliant, or they act so. I wish I knew how to get them on the right side."

"Don't know, send them a bottle of wine as a token of friendship."

A flicker of amusement flashed in Aro's eyes, but it was killed by self-discipline, and when the vampire continued, his voice was muted, without emotion.

"I'm grateful for your help, Jane. I'll probably phone you tomorrow at the same time."

"It's been nice to talk to you."

Jane hanged up, leaving her adoptive father in the sudden silence. At least now he had some sort of a plan. Aro went over it in his mind, it didn't seem like a deliberate one, but the risk was calculated.

* * *

"I don't want to hear any of your lame excuses," - keys in Madlen's hand were slightly jingling when the manager entered the living room, representing the first part of her name. "It's less than half of the hour left before the show, and you two still didn't show up at the dressing rooms!"

But the woman froze at the threshold as what she saw resembled a war zone. There were sellotaped notes and black-marker writings right on the glass of panorama windows, a pile of photos dumped on the floor, and well as some antique books, each of which probably cost more than her month's salary. Not less than ten empty gin bottles were standing here and there. There was a bottle of wine on the coffee table, uncorked, too, some glasses with leftovers of something that looked a lot like dried blood and also on the sofa was a white bedsheet in which something that looked a lot like a dead body was slovenly wrapped.

"Peter?" Madlen asked timidly but got no response, "Amelia?"

Now she was summoning all the self-control left in her for not running away and calling 911. After a few seconds and a deep breath, she finally managed to move and make a couple of steps to the coach.

The woman slowly pulled the sheet off and covered her mouth, holding back a silent scream. It was Amy in nothing but a nightgown lying there with her eyes closed, arms crossed on her chest like a body ready for burial. Her skin was pale and as translucent as rice paper, but veins on her neck and chin were black, creating a psychedelic net, the other part of which was hiding somewhere under the clothes.

"She couldn't sleep, so I gave her half a Xanax... " a husky voice made Madlen almost jump of fear. It was only her boss, but whether she could trust him or not was a great question. Peter Vincent was rumored to be the murderer of his girlfriend, Ginger, but the police couldn't find any evidence, and the case was closed quickly. It was whispered that he had some ties with the mafia, too. And the fact that he changed everyone in his team soon after that incident was only adding oil to the flame.

In the harsh yellow light of the city's night illumination coming from windows, Peter looked almost as sick as Amy: he had black circles under the eyes, his skin was pale, fake tattoos on his neck were drawn lopsided, and his hands were shaking that much, that Madlen could hear ice cubes clinking in the drink he was holding. She took a small step back, clutching the biggest key tightly in her hand in the way she had been told at self-defense classes. Peter finished his whiskey at one gulp and put the glass on the counter with a loud sound.

"Absinthe. Some bastard sent tainted wine. And then... You have a full view of what had happened. She was vomiting a greenish-yellow liquid, it could be bile, not sure, for all morning."

The more he was talking, the more Madlen was becoming convinced that her boss is insane; she shook her head no, slowly retreating to the door.

"Is she dead?" the woman asked.

"They call it torpor. But I don't like this word. It sounds like it's been taken from a biology textbook. And biology is boring, except those parts that are about mating. Mads, just look, isn't it beautiful? Like a Sleeping Beauty coming true."

Madlen shot a quick glance at the body, not wanting to provoke exasperation from the man, but willing to keep her eyes on Peter at the same time.

"Tim Berton's edition," she resumed.

"I totally agree, it looks creepy, but on the other hand, this evolutional benefit helped vampires to survive during tough times. Legends say some could spend the whole century sleeping."

Madlen сursed underneath her breath: it's either she works for actual vampires, or the boss has drunk himself into madness. Different facts militated in favor of different options, but no matter what was the truth, she desired to quit. By feeling, Madlen found her mobile in the back pocket of her jeans and tried to dial the three-digit number. She wished they were still in the early 2000s when all the phones had buttons on them. Now her only hope was motor memory. Home button, the left corner for emergency calls, then 9, 9 once again, then 1 and... There was a sudden flash of pain in the wrist when Peter, Madlen could swear he teleported, or at least moved forward much too fast for her to see, caught her by the arm, and then pressed her against the closest wall.

"You will not do this!" He hissed at her like a snake, and Madlen stared at him with wide, frightened eyes, a lump in her throat. For the whole five years, she's been working for this man, her guts were screaming that something is decidedly wrong, that she should run. But she was convincing herself to believe that it's because she's dealing with an utterly unprofessional when it comes to anything that is not making an impressive show moron, harasser, and alcohol addict, that is cohabiting with an underage girl. Peter applied some more pressure to his grip, and when the phone finally dropped on the floor, he kicked it away.

"Our Father," the beginning of Lord's prayer - barely a whisper - escaped her lungs out of control. The man closed his wild owl eyes, and then his face softened.

"What kind of monster do you think I am?" he mumbled, letting go off her. "What a monster have I become?"

Forgetting about the key, that was still in her left hand, Madlen threw her boss a right hook, but only got her knuckles bruised. Peter slowly touched his nose...It had to bleed, she was quite aware that her punches were severe enough for a woman of her weight category, but this time there was no effect.

"I wish I felt anything," he said in a cold, emotionless tone. And then Madlen heard it - a faint сhuckle coming from Amy, that turned into uncontrollable laughter.

"Sorry, daddy, I can't play dead anymore!" she sat up, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Assholes, you're fucking assholes!" Madlen exploded with rage, she picked up the closest empty bottle and threw it against the wall as hard as she could, causing it to explode into a hailstorm of fragments.

"Are we?" asked Amy with cunning. "Some prick has sent a bottle of wine, knowing which poison gonna have an effect. The card attached to it is printed, no name, the text is blandly anonymous, and all incoming fanmail and correspondence are channeled via you. We simply had to exclude you from the suspect list. If you happen to know any other way to get an actual reaction... we do apologize for this little show."

"Do we have to call the police?" Madlen did her best to calm down, but her voice was still shaking, and the wrist hurt like hell.

"Lethal dose of thujone for humans is one gram per ten kilos..." Peter shook his head. "In a best-case scenario, they would classify it as a prank."

"You said "for humans"..." woman swallowed, she hadn't had a habit of stuttering, but she eventually began to. "Are you...vampires?"

"You don't want to know the actual answer," he snapped her up, but Amelia didn't approve of him behaving like that.

"Madlen deserves to know the truth!" she exclaimed.

"And what she will do with this truth? You heard what he said, laws are for everyone. And "not telling" is the first one in that fucking list."

"After all, I've figured it by myself," probably, being an apple of Discord was great in some TV-shows, but in real life, it was a shitty feeling. Peter nodded, taking it as a loophole.

"I'm not really fond of doing this, it's not like I don't trust you, but everyone is not a saint and can blurt things out at the worst possible time," he bit his lower lip, and his face grew serious. It was the darkest expression Madlen ever has seen before she felt some fog in her head, it was very much like a feeling of being high on LSD, but not entirely the same, "You can't talk about what you have seen and understood today with anyone who is not us two until you've been told by me to do otherwise. You can't write or type about it either. Art of any kind is not allowed too..."

Peter's eyes squinted on Amy, and the feeling disappeared. Madlen tumbled to the idea that she experienced some sort of mind control.

"Any backdoor?" he asked assistant uncertainly.

"Don't see any."

"I hope it's the way it is." Peter сonfessed and took a few steps back adjusting his long wig, "Maddy, we'll answer all the questions at intermission but now,"

With no sign of effort, he lifted Amy in bridal style. As he did so, the girl put her arm around his neck - more out of surprise and habit than for added support - but after he straightened up, it slid off.

"As good old lad Freddy said, the show must go on. Whoever sent that poison, expects us to drink it."

Madlen, still on the edge of a hysterical fit, was opening and closing her mouth as she picked up her phone from the carpet. Surprisingly, but the glass didn't crack. She definitely can do this. She can pretend that she's not dealing with the supernatural, but she needs a day off and a gigantic bottle of whiskey. For better load distribution in the nest of his arms, Peter flung Amy up slightly and pulled her closer.

"Comfortable, Bamby?" he asked.

"Yeap," smiled she with her head upside down, closing her eyes and simulating faint once again. "Try not to smudge the paint! It's gouache, not slap."

"If we are ready, Madlen, would you be so kind as to open me the door?"


	3. Chapter 3

If humans as a species had some superpower, it was a superpower of forgetting. With proper aspiration, people could cut off the whole chapters of their lives, that lasted for years, and a couple of days, in this case, was not a problem. It took Charlie the whole four years to figure out he had some false memories. The psychologist he was visiting in Los-Angeles used some fancy word - confabulation, but in fact, he was dealing with mental injury after facing a serial killer. His brain tried to soothe the suffering and created a story where Jerry Dandrige was a vampire responsible for the deaths of his classmates and their families.

It was long ago, but now everything was great or, at least, looked that way. He got an internship during the first year in college, completed a bachelor's degree in journalism with an A+. His career was promising, and he was carrying a proposal ring in his breast pocket for about two months now, waiting for the right moment. Probably, the moment was going to arrive during the next visit to Vegas. He had already introduced Alex to his mother, and she adored his new girlfriend, the same could not have been said about Amy way back. What could possibly go wrong?

As it turned out - everything. Still-miss-Young somehow got tickets for one of the most famous shows... And out of all shows in Vegas, including Celine Dion's, it was Bloody Sunrise.

"I know, you keen on vampires," she said, kissing him on the left cheek, "And everyone is talking about this one act."

At that moment, Charlie could only hope he would survive through the evening. It was funny how different people were coping with the same trauma. He got depression and nightmares, while those two were celebrating life in the style of Boccaccio's Decameron. The fact of the matter was, he wasn't able to look at the poster of the show without a dull pain rising in his chest. Unfortunately, he couldn't figure out the actual reason for this to happen: it could be either understanding that all the people seemed to be anxious to idealize vampires or the sight of almost naked Amy affectionately held in arms of a man twice her age.

He and Alex arrived at the hotel almost an hour before the show, dressed to the nines - Charlie wasn't even against hair gel just in case they actually run across Peter or Amy or them both - but the lobby, casino, and bar were already full of people. He still had a bad feeling about this evening and the feeling was getting worse with every second since he saw a furious woman, in contrast to the guests and most of the staff she was wearing ripped jeans and an oversized off-shoulder t-shirt, that slammed the door of the backstage entrance and clip-clopped towards the elevator. Nervous whispering reached Charlie's ears no more than ten minutes later. Someone was looking for a doctor - a woman had fallen into a swoon, and hadn't recovered consciousness.

"What's happening?" asked him curious Alex, and then Charlie saw it over her shoulder: a perfect picture for some Hollywood blockbuster, but not for real life. For years of silent stalking of Amy on Facebook and Instagram, he has convinced himself that all photos were photoshopped. It was unbelievable that an almost-older-than-a-quarter-of-century person that was dealing with such a lifestyle was looking like a teenager. Ten three-hour shows a week with only one day off for more than two years in a row that Amy was spending drinking her ass off at different parties and with different people (actually, some of the uploaded photos looked as they were taken right before the beginning of an orgy ) should have had some negative effect. The effect was present, but it was hard to call it a bad one. His ex-girlfriend definitely got way paler, removed both moles from her face, but she didn't age a day. Peter that was carrying fainted Amy like some treasure, in his turn, by some devil's design, appeared younger than seven years ago when they saw each other for the last time. He got rid of bags under his eyes as well as permanent hangover puffiness, and something changed inside him, like all the weight that was on his shoulders for years somehow loaded off, and he filially got able to straighten them. Also, as far as Charlie could get in this light, illusionist had suffered the same fate of sunlight deprivation.

Charlie felt an uncontrollable urge to rush towards them, towards people he used to know, towards people he used to care about but couldn't move a muscle. How could he possibly help? He wasn't a doctor, after all, not even a nurse, and he couldn't even guess what disease Amy was now suffering from. The only thing that popped into Charlie's mind was collapsing from hunger. 

The situation the three of them got into years ago was unfair. They survived a serial killer attack, got kidnapped Amy (and some other victims) out Jerry's lair, but police accused them of killing innocent men, including Peter's girlfriend. Of course, in those circumstances, they had to stick together when that awful night had ended. Charlie was still wondering how his girlfriend ended in Peter's bed. It definitely wasn't something that happened in one moment. It was a long process of her slowly leaving his orbit and entering Peter's, and he was too young and too naive for not seeing it until there wasn't anything he could do other than setting Amy free, though she tried to deny everything. Anger once boiled his blood, and it seemed that he still had some sort of chip on his shoulder. No matter how much lies still were in his head or how much he did remember of the events - Charlie knew that it was he who pushed mister I-am-the-vampire-hunter for coming into serial killer's house and getting things done.

After all, what happened, he shouldn't succumb to temptation and reveal his presence here today. "Someone already had too much," Charlie lied in a blink of an eye, but he couldn't walk away, it would be too suspicious. They stabbed him in his back, and he didn't want to look pitiful.

Eventually, there was a doctor in the crowd - a balding man, soft at the belly. By one single look, you could say that he was some sort of therapist. He leaned to Amy, asking questions about what had happened. Closer, Closer. After a second, the doctor's head got caught into the palms of Amy that wasn't unconscious at all, and she bit the man in his neck. He let out a surprised screech but soon fell down like a sack of potatoes, clothes covered in fake blood. A splatter of applause quite at first, then louder and louder once people started to recognize the stars of the show, roughed into the ears.

"If you get killed or occasionally turned into a vampire during this show, it won't stop!" laughed Amy, easily sliding off Peter's arms and stepping across the body with a slight bow. It turned out that Charlie wasn't even close to the truth in his assumptions. Nobody was sick, and it was just some provocative overture of the show. Oh, it was going to be a rough night, as Alex that was standing next to him, was furiously clapping.

Through the years, Peter Vincent was said to be a good magician, but when he made himself sober up, he became an excellent one. No wonder there was such a fuss made about Bloody Sunrise - it was dumbfounding by its complexity act. The show was presented as a mixture of a theatre play and stage illusions - the same manner was used in jaded the palate Fright Night. The old show conveyed the impression of being filled with speaking due to the lack of a magician's capability to perform two acts in a row. Bloody Sunrise gave quite the inverse vibes - the gaps were for letting the audience to take a deep breath before they had to hold it for one more time and one more. 

The story began with a previously introduced in Fright Night vampire hunter with the same name Peter Vincent been bitten by a vampire during the hunt. Out of desperation, he asked doctors for help hoping that maybe like-he-has-been-bitten-by-a-poisonous snake therapy would be efficacious. If not, he was chewing over the idea of cutting his arm off. But who would believe a man that claims such things? It was no wonder that a mad vampire hunter was put in a mental facility. 

To his own surprise, Charlie found himself enjoying the show for the first twenty minutes. How he could not if his heart wished illusionist to get burned before he escapes the straightjacket while running up and down the walls and breaking rules of gravity?

But then Amy appeared on the stage in something that was a tiniest acceptable without calling it stripper uniform lace underwear set and a bathrobe hanging loosely on her shoulders. She was lounging on the armchair and sipping wine, and knowing Peter, it most certainly wasn't a red grape or cherry juice just for the entourage.

"Peter Vincent," Amy's voice, coming from the stage, even sounded different, it was the one of a vicious woman, not of a girl she used to be. "I've heard a lot about you. Why don't you come closer and take a seat?"

"Ugh!" Peter was hesitating and clenching a stake in his hands, "I thought you would..."

"If you have come to kill me," she interrupted, putting her glass on the coffee table, "you would have already attacked. It means that you need me alive for some time. Am I right?"

"You're rumored to be the oldest vampire..." the hunter started, "The Mad Mary."

"It's gonna be a quick-change, it's from the trailer, " an old lady that was sitting right behind them whispered to her husband. She was making unnecessary comments throughout the entire play and irritated Charlie was already one step from committing homicide.

"One of..." Amy stood up slowly approaching the man, "perhaps. Lost the count after millennia."

Illusionist made a big step back, his back meeting the wall.

"Stay back, or I'll stake you!"

"What makes you think I'm against your stake in me?" she put Peter's palm right on her exposed chest with a naughty smirk, but then she saw a bandage on his hand, and the flirty smile disappeared "Oh... I finally see why you are here. Can I have a look?"

Hunter nodded, choking back the tears while the vampire was unwrapping the covering of his wound. The second kerchief that everybody remembered to be white was red inside. It was a small manipulation trick nobody would notice if the camera didn't focus on it.

"It doesn't look that bad. Once it cures, the initiation scar will be almost invisible. Mine is awful. I'll show," She slid off staps of her bra.

"No," Peter pressed the crumpled kerchief to the woman's body, and when he withdrew his hands, instead of the bra, she was wearing a negligee of the same vermeil color. The male part of the public repined against this dressing up.

"I mean, " he tried to explain himself. "There is no need for visual proof."

"If you absolutely insist." Tying her bathrobe together, Amy sighed. "That one who turned me bit out a piece of flesh."

"Sounds pretty painful."

"Oh, it was a painful night in all ways possible. Father sent me to the nobleman; he told me to be nice to the traveler, and maybe the man would give me a present." Amy meanwhile was circling the scene and turning off lamps one by one, as the light was getting dim and blueish." And it turns out he was right, immortality is probably the best gift I could get in exchange for my virginity. Still, I think the vampire changed his mind and decided to let me live at the last moment."

"Don't you think it's too much information?" vampire hunter screwed up his face, though his voice was filled with a relief by cause of vampire staying away from him. He even made some steps from the wall.

"I know you're scared, and you're dying. I try my best not to let you succumb to panic. You killed lots of our kind thinking about vampires as monsters, and most of us are them indeed. But you should really see this situation as an opportunity." she took an unlit shadow lantern from the coffee table, and, by a miracle, the candle inside of it self-ignited, creating long formless shadows.

"Opportunity?" Peter asked.

"You're stepping into the other side. And the dark is full of life. Can't you feel it?"

"It's well after midnight. Everyone is sleeping. I can't feel a thing."

Amy blew on the tin lantern, and it raised in the air, slowly floating like it was weightless. She showed her hands - completely free from any ropes and fishing-lines before she, like a demon, stood right behind the man's left shoulder. 

"Yes, you can. Just close your eyes and let yourself. There is a radio playing in the neighbors' house down the hill."

Peter did as he was told, and, for a second, the scene froze in complete silence. And then, within the sounds of coughing and twitching people in the auditorium, appeared a ghost sound of violins. It was getting more and more distinct until it gained a full volume. No way, his baroque-reminding music was able to be in airplay on any kind of radio, except some of the online stations, but no one cared about accuracy.

"I think I hear." finally admit the man, letting Amy pull his coat off and throw it on the closest armchair while she plopped down into the other so harsh it made the full circle on its axis. When the armchair turned its back to the stage curtains again, Amy was already wearing a long old-fashioned gown - the change from the robe took less than two seconds.

"Told you. Do you happen to know that such a prudish dance as waltz was called defiantly vulgar and sinful way back in eighteen century? And tango wasn't there 'till the beginning of the twentieth. I wonder what those people would say if they saw twerk... "

"They would die from a heart attack." with his index finger, Peter touched the lantern, and it immediately split into two. One floated to the right and one to the left, spiraling and bringing shadows of dancing figures to the walls. One. Two. Three. Four. Slow. Slow. Quick. Quick. Slow. A base figure for eight counts. It was hard not to recognize the classical ballroom rhythm. It was much harder to understand how in a five-minute track they managed to fit changing of seven costumes for two of them (none of which was made in a classic black fabric tube), colorizing a bunch of photos on the wall from black and white to full-color, actual well-trained tango, and a kiss. A goddammed kiss with the tongue with a four-meter crimson ribbon pulled out of their mouths as a result.

"Charlie?" Alex's voice was full of concern and confusion when her boyfriend stood up from his seat and started to poke his way to the exit.

"Sit... I think I need to throw up," he whispered. Charlie preferred not to hear another comment from the old lady, saying something about his trousers. The water in the toilet tap he splashed in his face was freezing as the water in the lake of the last Inferno's circle, but it allowed Charlie to calm down and stop clenching his fists that much that his knuckles had gone white. He never thought about himself as a jealous person, but he was freaking out for sure. From the big mirror above the numerous sinks at him was looking the same frightened teenager who lost his girlfriend to an old prick.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" calm and perfectly polite question scared the everliving heck out of Charlie that somehow didn't take cognizance of someone else entering the public restroom.

"No, I'm fine," he said.

"You look like you're on the edge of a panic attack. It's not a fine condition." The stranger now reflecting in the mirror while washing his hands was one of those people to whom the descriptive epithet was a filthy rich bastard. Long dark hair gathered into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, black clothes, even his eyes were black as some sort of obsidian. "The usual reason people do run from this show into the toilet is a problem with self-discipline or experiencing premature ejaculation. Sometimes both. You acted differently."

"Are you psychoanalyzing me?" Charlie had no idea why this man smiled at the sick joke, he shook his arms like a cat and pulled some paper towels for drying them.

"I'm just observant and looking for inspiration for a new book," he said.

"Should I know your name and twitch all over cause you're speaking to me?"

"Most certainly not. People out of Italy in the main are not familiar with my oeuvre" well, it made sense. The accent, the cologne, even the black polish on nails on offered for a handshake palm. His new acquaintance is European. "How do you think about me buying you a drink and providing listening ears? I promise you'll feel way better once you let all out."

The last thing Charlie remembered was him touching the man's hand after he introduced himself as Aro.


	4. Chapter 4

For Charlie, early waking up was never easy. And early waking up on his day off was twice as hard. But this time, this simple act felt like he's been returning from Hades's office. Something was obviously wrong: he felt tired as hell, his neck hurt on the left side, he had a dull aching sensation all over his head, and an attempt to open the eyes lead to seeing some flashing lights. Also, he found himself in the place he had no memory of. He was sleeping in someone else's bed- it wasn't a bed in the house of his girlfriend's parents- and he was carefully covered by a heavy duvet. Lights were out, and the weather was grey, so it was hard to say what hour it was. 

Charlie quite remembered the beginning of yesterday's evening: the show, his escape to the toilet, meeting a man there, and how their conversation started to be more and more friendly with every drunken shot.

No, he did not do it. He couldn't, he shouldn't, and he was still wearing his shirt. 

"But the trousers are gone," whispered his inner voice that for some weird reason sounded like Jerry Dandridge. With a lot of effort, Charlie lifted his eyelids to see the man sitting in the armchair and typing something on his laptop. A curtain of raven-black slightly wavy at the ends hair was hiding stranger's face except for the tip of his nose. His hands were flying over the keyboard at a remarkable speed with no pauses - the man wasn't looking for the right words he was writing them, as if he was dictated.

"Good morning," stranger lifted his head and closed the lid after he saved the document.

"What happened?" Charlie decided to take the bull by the horns. The faster he would found out the truth - the better. He really hoped that his question did not sound rude.

"Too much alcohol," the man smiled. Aro- his name was Aro, Charlie finally recalled - wasn't moving, he was waiting for something and watching how the other sit up and ran his hand over his neck (a hickey, he got a bloody hickey - Charlie panicked) with his purple eyes. 

" My head already told me that," Charlie rubbed his, hoping that it was a trick of the light, and it did help, but why the hell the irises were the color of merlot? But the man didn't ease mental throwings or dispel doubts. The words he was saying had quite the opposite effect.

" I have standards, and getting consent from the partners is one of them, so you have nothing to worry about. Well, not about your anal virginity," Charlie gasped both from anger and embarrassment, but Aro didn't let him thrust in a word. " Your phone rang numerous times during the night. You might want to phone someone who is written under the name Alex Tinder back."

For a short second, Charlie wished to be dead or seriously injured, as he had no idea of how he should excuse his behavior or what he would have to lie, but the man continued his speech.

" Or maybe, since you sober, we'll finish what we started."

"Fuck," mumbled Charlie in undertones, and decided to change the theme instead. " What did happened to your eyes?" he asked.

" I suppose you never met someone like me in person."

" Someone like you?"

" People with genesis Alexandria, " by the tone of explanation, said Aro, "While the problem with hair color is easy to solve, wearing contacts twenty-four hours a day gives a felling of liquid soap squeezed in the eyes, so I usually take them out for nights."

Of course, Charlie heard about this sort of urban legend, and he didn't fall for it even slightly till today, but the other explanation in his head was even more unrealistic. 

"No, never," he said, happy to find his trousers and suit jacket at the other armchair, "Is it a genetic disease? "

"More of inconvenience. Sun sensitivity, due to no melanin in the skin. I can't go out without sunglasses and some other problems, as my wife says if she didn't know, her first guess would be a vampire."

" It was my first too," Charlie said, pulling his pants up it the fastest speed he could make it. Putting clothes on, though, didn't help them to look equally dressed. His wrinkled apparel **** appeared exactly how cost: a way cheaper than the man's suit. 

"The vampires are just a part of urban and not-so folklore."

"You are a hundred percent right," the flash of Aro's grin made Charlie shiver through every limb, he went hot all over without any reason. The silence was filled with unspoken words, apologies that for sure would sound either silly or ill-mannered. Or both. And it could only be defused by activity that was in Charlie's option - leaving, but Aro was not letting him go, his red eyes were pinning him to the place, but the more Charlie was staying, the more recognizable the feeling in his chest was becoming. And he didn't want something to be awakened in him, but...it was the same feeling he used to get when some pretty girl was standing too close to him: a mixture of hope, disbelief, and shame. Charlie forced himself to concentrate, but his eyes were still traveling restlessly up and down the room.

"Come on, I'll take you where you need to be, or at least walk you to the lobby," suggested Aro, and though he smelled something fishy, Charlie couldn't wrap his mind around why he should say no. But the moment they got out of the mirrored elevator, he understood why. 

On the ground floor next to the other door, Amy was waiting for her turn to enter the metal box of doom, as Alex was calling lifts. It was seven in the morning, but she looked fresh as a daisy, and the led light was making some weird effect on her sweaty skin - it seemed to glow from the inside. Her headphones were hanging on her neck, and a muffled sound of "The Pussycat Dolls Greatest Hits" disk playing on repeat filled all the space immediately. For a long second, they were eyeing each other. Amy stared with some surprise, Charlie in his turn with regret as his appearance left much more to be desired. But before he forced even a small "Hi!" out of his mouth, Aro took matters into his hands. 

"Amelia, what a lovely meeting!" he tried to reach her out, but she shied away from him in some supernatural speed, leaving Aro's fingers catching just the empty air. 

Nonetheless, Amy stopped, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms. Even when she sighed, her exposed chest was hardly moving as if breathing was not mandatory. The doors of the emptied elevator started to close, and she pressed the button firmly, so it won't leave the floor. 

"Can't say the same," Amy shook her head. 

"There is probably an awful misunderstanding." 

"There is not, mister Volturi..." she said with a sad smile, but her yellow unblinking eyes peered in Charlie's direction as if she wasn't recognizing him, "It's just either a language barrier you smashed in, or you're naive, or you have never heard no in your life."

Aro frowned at her words but didn't let her enter the elevator when she wanted to leave.

"Be sensible, little lady."

That urgent plea made her laugh. Charlie was well acquainted with the variety of Amy's voice. But today, she was struck by the tone of the reply, which was completely different from the way he remembered Amy speaking to other people. Now, he thought, it was tinged with bitterness and even some contempt.

"Neither I nor he wanted this kind of life. But, since we were not given a choice, why don't you, at least, leave us alone?"

"There is a great difference between solitude and being lonely. I hope you understand."

"I hoped you would understand it from the first attempt. But, maybe, Peter didn't make it quite clear. In this case, I'll repeat.  _ Fuck off _ ."

Amy dived under Aro's arm to get away, and, because the doors started to close again, she escaped the further conversation, by pushing one of the many floor buttons with two perfectly manicured fingers - nails covered with mirror-red polish. Aro was visually hurt by that damned woman, that didn't even bother on saying goodbye. But Charlie could only think how much she took after the magician she messed with. It was something on the subthreshold level in the way she ducked her head her, how she was leaning forward, trying to understand what Aro was saying to her, and how her hands tightly clasped when the heard words turned to be those she didn't want to hear. 

Amy grew older - there was no doubt in this fact - but the way she did it was different from what Charlie saw in himself and their coevals. On the one hand, she didn't age, her body and face saved both that youthful plumpness and angularity of hormonal tsunami, but she got somehow prettier, becoming one of those women it's impossible to say no to. And despite the fact Amy was wearing golden-colored lenses, that pushed her appearance beyond the borders of normality - her false inhumanity was devastatingly beautiful. After all, she was playing a vampire. And according to the legends, they were supposed to be cold creatures of the night. 

Charlie took a deep breath, slowly blinking. There was lying an ending to this nightmarish story. Now he was walking silently beside Aro, whose face already returned to normal, but the man's jaw still was a little bit tense when he stopped not far from the exit.

"If you ever change your mind, my dear, I'll be in Vegas at least until autumn. And you know where to find me," Charlie pondered a moment about what was said and then replied.

"Yes, sure," it was a lie, he won't come back. Charlie was hoping to forget about everything the moment he would walk through the glass doors of the hotel lobby. But, out of all the possible people with whom he could get sucked into such a story, probably Aro was the nicest ... at least he acted that way. And a false hope was the best mister Bruster was ready to suggest, for returning the favor before he left.

Any-time-before-seven-pm-in-the-morning Vegas has always looked like a city after apocalypses - there were hardly some garbage men doing their work and no one else. Waiting for his Uber to show up, Charlie kept thinking about what had happened and what it possibly meant. Yesterday's evening was playing in his head like a bad DJ's scratching.

"Marry that girl, she seems nice," a familiar voice made Charlie lift his head and stop looking at the pavement. Amy was standing behind him, hiding in the blurry building's shadow. She already changed her clothes for a long dress and a wide-brimmed hat made her silhouette a bit cartoonish, and she was keeping her hands in her pockets. Her hair was wet, gathered in sloppy, and big dark spots on her shoulders were screaming that she somehow managed to take a shower in those ten minutes. 

"I beg your pardon?" the tone of Charlie's voice was treacherously close to sarcasm, but Amy waved it off. 

"I said that you should propose that girl you came with to the show yesterday. " Charlie's eyebrows rose while she was explaining her words, sounding like modern-book Sherlock, "You have a ring-size box in your left breast pocket. It was there in the evening, and it's still there. It means that you have some doubts."

"How?"

"I'm a partner of a magician," she chuckled darkly, and immediately a condemnatory gaze pass over her, "And real-life illusions are much more than smoke and mirrors."

"A partner, then. What Peter had made of you?" Charlie muttered through teeth, but Amy heard him.

"Nothing I didn't allow."

"And your parents? What do they say?"

"We don't keep in touch."

This confession was shocking. Charlie knew that Amy had some problems with her parents since that night, but didn't expect them to be such insoluble. After all, they still lived in the same city. Another lovely, slightly crooked smile flashed across her face - it was the same one she was usually giving him when they were dating years ago to acknowledge something that shouldn't or couldn't be said aloud. But before Charlie could frame his thought into words and begin to ask unpleasant things, Amy changed the subject.

"Sorry for the scene. But Aro is a real douchebag."

"Is he?"

"He can, of course, act properly, but no... He is not a good man to mess with."

"The same could be said about the one you stuck with."

"Yeap. That's the right word. Stuck."

Amy said it in such a hurt way that Charlie immediately felt remorse, not able to find the right words. His ex-girlfriend meanwhile pulled a pack of Malboro and a lighter out of the air(she was showing off by presenting her nowadays skills) and smoked the first puff, releasing it to the  _ Mizu  _ sky, and he had to watch her for a long moment some more.

_ " _ Why can't you leave?" he asked, " I remember you wanting to get a degree in acting. The world isn't just Vegas. _ " _

"Peter would be lost without me."

"So, you're wasting your life to save him. It's not quite fair."

"Life never was fair..." she said, giving her ear to something Charlie couldn't hear or more plausible that he didn't pay attention to. "But I want to give you a fair warning. Stay away from Aro Volturi as much as you can. I can't tell you why without getting myself into trouble, but for the sake of all good things that were between us, do as I say."

"It wasn't me who ruined everything."

Amy blinked, astonished, and turned her face away from him when she straightened his collar out of old habit. Her hands were deadly cold when they brushed his skin.

"This one is yours," she said instead. Charlie didn't see the car approaching them, to be frank, it showed up coming from around the building a good couple of seconds after Amy finished her sentence. 

He had no idea how much Amy was overcome by a sense of sacrilege when she was digging out the metaphorical grave of their relationship. It was only by a great effort that she prevented herself from confessing the truth. But the truth was ugly, and all she could do was to force a physic smile and say no when the driver - an old man in his sixties with an awful walrus mustache and almost bald head wondered whether she is coming or not.

When Charlie turned around to check if she was watching him leave, there was already no one on the street. Sitting right behind the man, so he couldn't see what his passenger was doing, Charlie pulled out the box and checked the ring: it was a gold rim with a colorless, slightly included brilliant that was just under a carat. It was more than he could afford, but Alex was worth the best (within reasonable limits), Charlie thought so. And Amy was right too: yesterday was the perfect chance, in these circumstances, maybe, the last one. Waiting for a perfectly-tellable-to-future-children story had done a disservice to him. So, he decided to himself that he will do it today if his girlfriend won't kill him before he can go down on one knee. 

"Didn't get her father's blessing?" asked the driver in a thick accent, catching the reflection in the rearview mirror. It seemed like the man belonged to that type of taxi drivers that are ready to tell you their own family tree in 12 generations and want to hear the same in response during the ten-minute drive. Usually, it wasn't bothering Charlie, but now he was not in the mood for small talks.

"Sorry?"

"The girl looked sad. And she didn't come with you."

"It's a long story. Amy's just an old mate." Charlie nervously touched his neck only to find out that the hickey mysteriously disappeared. 

"Don't say you asked your old female friend to help you with choosing the ring... Friend of my cousin Maria asked her to do so. And she chose the most tasteless ring just to get back at that poor girl. And then three weeks later, he came and proposed her with that ring."

The man kept going and going without caring about the fact that all the answers he was getting were off-the-mark muffed sounds.


End file.
